


It Was Warmer, Then

by quintic



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:45:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8351476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quintic/pseuds/quintic
Summary: Whenever you are out on the Fury road, with the window down and the wind in your face, you think of her.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PhoenixFalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFalls/gifts).



**i**.

You are the Immortan's right hand of many war-boy fable, and your title is Imperator. You used to count the days you had been in his service, but they have all started to swirl together in a tired, muddy blur. You have been here for years. It is because you are a thing that survives. You are like the desert plant that throws roots down over a rock face and clings, even when the wind turns harsh-

\- a lesson, long forgotton. The Keeper, with her knees on the sand as she parts the dust and shows you what grows underneath. She was the one who named you. Furiosa, like the furies. A chthonic deity of vengeance.

The Immortan doesn't care about your name.

He tries to give you new ones but you don't answer to them, so eventually he gives up. His usual methods do not work on you as well as he would like them to. He rules with closed fists, and wields an army of thousands, but you are too stupid to cower. He wants to break you, but you will not bend. So he scatters you to every corner of the Wasteland, because if he can't run you into the ground, perhaps the desert will. 

Whenever you are out on the Fury road, with the window down and the wind in your face, you think of her.

 

 

 **ii**.

Now that you're well over five thousand days old, you're allowed to keep watch at night by the fire.

The Valkyrie is with you, as always. You are sharing a skin. She is staring into the embers with eyes half-lidded, knees hunched up in front of her, and it's quiet. Your Mothers have long since gone to bed, but you're in no hurry to follow them. Besides, Val's silent company is a treat.

Wordlessly, you hand her a nectarine from your open pack and she takes it, turning it over in her palms.

 _For me?_ she says, and digs her nail lightly into the skin, before bringing it to her nose. _Where'd you get it?_

You smile when she takes a bite, juice dribbling from the corner of her lips. But she's so happy, eyes closing as she savours her mouthful. You watch her throat when she swallows, and think she just might be the most beautiful person you'll ever known.

_Can we share?_

_Mmm-hmm_ , she says, and hands it back to you. Your eyes meet.

And then you kiss her.

She tastes like stone-fruit, and it lasts only a moment– you raise the nectarine to take a bite, but she grabs you by the shoulders and pulls you against her. _Oh_. She's so good to kiss. Your heart is thudding loud enough to be heard. Val has a hand on the small of your back, and the other on the nape of your neck, the gesture possessive, yet infinitely tender. You put your hands on either side of her face to hold her there, and she sighs. Her body folds against yours.

 

 

 **iii**.

When you're taken only thirty-seven days later, you can hear her screaming on the wind when the cars pull away.

 

 

 **iv**.

Your mother dies on the third day.

Val is a scream in your ears. You've been writing her name on your palm over and over again so you don't forget it. You are Furiosa, of the green place. Mary Jo Bassa is your mother's name. You belong to the Vuvalini of the Many Mothers. The Valkyrie belonged to you.

 

 

 **v**.

 _Cut my hair_ , you say one afternoon, daring, full of affection. Val is weaving baskets with her knees in the sand and you are watching.

 _Hmm_ , Val says, without looking up. _Y_ _ou're certainly due for it, hedgehog._

The childish nickname makes you glower, and now she's looking, just so she can savour your reaction.

_Rack off! You know what I mean._

Val is tall and brown, willowy in the breeze. She is like the flax pooled in a heap beside her leg.

_Cut your hair?_

_Cut my hair, Val. As lovers would. With_ your _knife._

You are five thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two days old but she's staring at you like you're shiny and new. You're pleased to have got her attention, and especially in a way that is so startling that she's forgotten her chore entirely.

 _Maybe I will_ , she says eventually, but she's trying not to smile now. She's proud again, free hand carding through her hair, pulling it all over one shoulder.

 _You've been waiting for me to ask you_ , you guess. Your mouth hurts from smiling. Val snorts and rolls her eyes, but when you go to kiss the corner of her mouth, she leans in.

 _Partners_ , you say, breathless and wild with happiness.

 _Always_ , she sighs, and takes your hand in both of hers, squeezing tight enough to hurt.

 

 

 **vi**.

You forget her name on purpose.

You cower away from thinking about home, especially now that you're like this. You are an Immortan's Imperator, chosen to lead his vast fleet of cars. The green place lingers on the edge of your mind like mold, and you ignore it. You haven't got a plan that goes further than stay alive. Not yet. You need to find your footing. Once you do, the Immortan is dead.

 

 

 **vii**.

When you see her next, you are different.

She is different. She comes running for you across the sand, feet bare, hair wild. Oh, but she still carries _everything_ in her eyes; they water as you step towards her, and then you are in her arms again. She is breathing hard, her body pressing in, seeking a closeness long forgotten. When her hand goes to the back of your neck, you are five thousand days old all over again.

 _Our Furiosa_ , she breathes. _My Furiosa._

You want to sink into her, learn her all over again. God, she's so tall. She's so alert in a painful, familiar way, but there is a new weariness that clings to the edges of her. When you finally come back to her, grief-stricken and exhausted, you realize that the green place isn't lost after all: it's in her gaze.

You share a spot by the fire that night. She sits close, but is careful not to touch, wary about the tired, angry state of you, and that very nearly breaks your fucking heart.

 _It's okay_ , you murmur, but she looks into the fire and says nothing.

 _You are strange_ , she says.

 _So are you_ , you reply.

And she does touch you, then. She reaches to your shoulder and lets her hand follow the outline of your arm underneath your blanket, down towards when she knows it stops. You let her cup the stump of your arm. It is not the only part of your body that you have ruined on purpose. If there is anything that living with an Immortan has taught you, it is this: you are the only person who gets to burn you down.

You did this to yourself to keep other people from doing it first. Val's hand drops to the empty spot in the sand between you.

 _I miss this hand_ , she says, and a sad, fond smile curls the corners of her lips.

 _I have another_ , you say, and lean in to kiss her.

 

 **viii**.

And when you next wake up, she is dead.

Some how you come back from a sleep that seemed so final you were almost fooled by it. When you open your eyes, you are lying on your back somewhere you don't recognize, and you would lash out if it weren't for the terrible pain. Somebody is holding your hand. Her touch is worn smooth, comforting.

The Mother touches your cheekbone very gently with her old fingertips, and says: _welcome back._

Your throat is lined with sandpaper. The Vuvalini helps you drink, watching carefully to make sure you don't choke.

_Where are they?_

_Safe_ , the Mother replies immediately, for she knows exactly who you mean. She wets a cloth, and cools your face with it: a hideous waste of water. They must have taken the cisterns. You don't remember a thing.

_Where is she?_

_Dead_ , says the Mother, but you knew this. You saw her on the backs of your eyelids just moments before, and knew, in your heart, that she was gone. She is with Angharad, now. She is with your mother. 

 _Dead_ , you echo.

She had said  _forever_.

This is not the love you wanted.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 **ix: epilogue**.  

Max brings her back. 

Max brings a lot of people back, apparently.

He goes back to the place where the war rig lies dead in the sand. You are grateful for Max's curiosity because you have nothing left in you for the road right now; you are still torn almost in half and pained, confined to bed. The sisters bring you things to placate your furious grief, and Max goes back along the Fury road, and your girl ambushes him as he sits in place, motorcycle idling noisily in the calm heat. She would have stolen it without remorse if she hadn't recognized him, your shot-gun of a girl.

When he brings her to your door you are asleep, and when you wake up, she is there. 

 _Oh,_ you say, because she is right there, her hand smoothing across your hair, and for a moment she is overwhelming. Gorgeous and alive above you, her lip busted, her nails ragged. She kisses your forehead with chapped lips. What is she doing here?  _Am I alive?_

 _Yes,_ she says. She will explain the whole thing later, but right now, everything is warm and tender: the way she puts her thumb to the cut over your eyebrow, or when you meet her gaze. You have never had a proper chance to truly love each other and now you have the rest of this life. She knows it too.

This time, you will get it right. 


End file.
